In Smoke
by JustAnotherIndividual
Summary: When the stress piles on, Sherlock finds a way to release it, through the use of drugs. Namely Marijuana.


_In Smoke_

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><p>There he was once more, sitting on the floor of a basement, the small roll up in between his thumb and pointer finger which every so often he would bring to his lips and puff.<p>

He swallowed in attempt to sooth the dry feeling over powering him in his mouth. He sighed slightly in content before letting out a small cough.

He relaxed as his mind slowly begun to slow down and he allowed a small smile to even spread across his face as colors grew bright, even though no colors were present.

His mind..it worked too fast. Unbearably fast most times. It lead to panic attacks that would rise in his throat and settle in his stomach, rendering him almost sick with butterflies around in his stomach and brain.

he would feel squeamish, and eventually, in the silence and solitude that the night brought, would puke in the toilet bowl.

Smoking made things better.

Though, this, had never happened.

He had never had to ask Lestrade to slow down for a moment, and when he had done that, he knew the stress was becoming unbearable.

It had never happened during the day though. Usually it came apparent at night when the Telly didn't make sense and he had to re-read a page over and over in a book because he couldn't focus.

He'd been looking at the victim and hadn't been able to make heads or tails of anything Lestrade had just said, and while in mid-summarization, he'd asked Lestrade kindly, if he could slow down.

He received a plethora of strange and almost worried looks. He apologized with a heavy sigh and shook his head, stating he'd b e back momentarily, and had dismissed himself to the basement of the victim's house, in order to light up.

They didn't need a fetal position Sherlock Holmes at the moment.

He remembered when he was smaller, when he had no clue had to deal with the panic attacks, and he'd be out of control to the point of his mother and father pulling their hair out in frustration. They had no idea on how to calm the child. Mycroft, however, knew.

He, after a few hours of screaming, would dismiss himself to his room and curl into a fetal position, which is when Mycroft would come in and slowly rake through his hair, whispering to him that everything would be alright.

As an adult now, the panic attacks were less intense, though they still tended to last two days if he avoided puking. He'd freak out, scream for a few minutes or so and maybe let out a tear or two, then he'd curl into himself and refuse to listen or talk to anyone until he could convince himself everything was going to be alright.

John had never seen this, as the panic attacks were fairly rare. Only coming around every year or so and most times when these things happened, they were in the midst of the night. He was assured John would never have to witness such a thing.

However, that day he to go crawling to the basement to light up, he had come close to one of the attacks. He _wouldn't _allow John to see him in such a vulnerable way. Neither Anderson, Sally, or Lestrade.

He'd discovered when about sixteen that the substance of marijuana would easily help him pass through the attacks, and so, whenever possible, that was exactly what he did.

Smoked just enough.

A door opened and he looked over with half-lidded eyes as the sllhoute stopped suddenly and then came dashing down the stairs.

"Sherlock!"

Sherlock turned his head to be met with the face of one John Watson, glaring at him with a fierce intensity. "You came down in the basement to smoke _pot?__" _

Sherlock looked at him lazily, "So?"

John scoffed and put a hand over his eyes, "Come on, we need to get you out of here, obviously, you've gotten brain damage within the last twenty-four hours.."

Sherlock, slumped over against the wall currently, assumed a straight posture before attempting to stand up, but failing miserably as he landed right back in his slumped position.

John sighed heatedly and pulled him upright, pulling his arm across his shoulders before taking the marijuana from his fingers, putting it out, and sticking it into his own jean pocket in order to dispose of it properly later.

"Don't throw it away..not done.." Sherlock murmured incoherently.

"No, you're done." John dictated quickly with a few murmurs of, _'I can't believe you..' _and, _'What the bloody hell is **wrong**__with you?' _

Sherlock only gave a small smirk as John quickly aided him up the stairs and out of the smoke filled basement, hoping he didn't reek of the drug before helping a stumbling Sherlock Holmes walk towards the door, practically dragging him by this point.

Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade gave almost shocked looks before they sunk down into something of confusion.

Lestrade looked on slight concerned, clearing his throat, "John, what happened?"

John shook his head, stopping momentarily and hoping the inspector wouldn't notice him lying through his teeth, "He's looked ill all day, I should have told him to rest.." He replied slowly, setting the very high Sherlock Holmes down on the couch, where he slumped over, once again, a cold sheen of sweat across his forehead now.

He did look very ill, but perhaps that could be thanks to his naturally sickly-pale complexion and dark bags beneath his eyes, only intensified by the slight redness accumulating in the whites of his eyeballs.

"...he got confused and headed down into the basement." John replied quickly, lowering down to one knee, acting as though he were doing some sort of check-up as he grabbed his wrist, checked for a pulse, and obviously found one.

He opened his eyes wider, and turned his face slight to the side, before shaking his head as though the results were grim.

"Why didn't you tell me you were feeling so ill?" John scolded before standing up, Sherlock looking up slowly, confused.

"W-W-What?" He stumbled slowly, blinking rapidly and cracking a smile, "Stand still, John."

"See what I mean?" John replied, shaking his head once more before helping him stand up quickly, but more so picked him up than anything, slinging his arm around his shoulders just as before.

"J-John..." Sherlock murmured, "There's...um...uh..." He lost his train of thought momentarily as John tried to hurry out of the building.

"I'll contact you later, Inspector, tomorrow he'll probably be feeling better but we'll see. Terribly sorry." John announced quickly as Sally hesitantly opened the door for them, and Anderson sneered with a small smile tugging on his lips as he followed them out the door, not wanting the entertainment to exactly stop.

"...Ew, he's ugly." Sherlock remarked, looking dazed at Anderson's bird-like features.

Anderson gasped and then glared harshly, his burning red with anger as Lestrade couldn't help but release a soft chuckle.

"Alright. Sherlock, get better, and John, I'm sure if he wasn't so high he'd thank you."

John's heart sunk, "What?"

"If he wasn't so damn high, he'd thank you."

John gave a wry smile, "How did you-"

"After a few years, you eventually begin to be able to differ a sick Sherlock and a high one. He only smokes every once in a while, so throw out the joint you found him with. It's most likely his only one."

John smiled in appreciation before nodding, noticing Anderson and Sally had gone back inside the crime scene as soon as Anderson had been offended.

" Thank You, Inspector." John replied as he ushered Sherlock into the taxi cab and off they went to 221B Baker Street where he knew Mrs. Hudson will rush to make him some tea and John would scold him for hours on the danger of drug use.

But no one would ever know why Sherlock Holmes, once every year or so, would light up and turn his world into smoke.


End file.
